


Pound Of Flesh

by phrenitis



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2018-01-01 23:25:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phrenitis/pseuds/phrenitis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She'd committed to a life behind a desk - both penitence and for everyone else's safety. But she owed Coulson, too.</p><p>1x6 Episode Tag.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pound Of Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: Season One, _F.Z.Z.T._
> 
> Written for [iamrands](http://iamrands.tumblr.com/) who prompted me into writing for a pairing I didn't think I'd attempt... although this fic might not be exactly what she had in mind. ;)

Coulson stops her when she steps away to give him space. It's just a touch on her wrist, but she knows what he's asking; it's a request she can deny, not an order. She hesitates, but because it's Coulson, because he stands in front of her with his chest bare and his own truths exposed, she acquiesces.

She turns in place to give him access, but she keeps turning her head until she's looking away, not wanting to face whatever expression he'll wear for her. She doesn't want to see pity, but she's well aware his sadness would be worse. His fingers slide along her waist, his touch confident and knowing. And she doesn't mean to hold her breath, wants strength of steel, but when he lifts the hem of her top, pulls shirt and vest up until her lower back is visible, it scares her more than she thought possible.

"Are we ever going to talk about it?" he asks quietly. She doesn't need to look to know exactly what he sees - a jagged scar of her own across flesh that healed far more quickly than the rest of her.

She sets her mouth in a line. "No."

Prepared now, she doesn't jump when he touches her skin. But then his fingers drop to the scar, his hand curving over her back, and it's too much, it's too familiar. She's suddenly back in the past, face down on unyielding concrete as she dies, her blood pooling hot and wet under her stomach leaving her with nothing but agony and shame.

"You've seen me at my weakest," she tells him, the words an admission.

"That's not how I remember it." His hands had been strong then too, pressing down firmly to stem the blood flowing from her as he'd fought to save the life she had no longer wanted or deserved.

"Don't you dare, Melinda," he'd threatened when she'd closed her eyes looking for peace somewhere in the darkness. Fear had made his voice tight and angry. "That's an order."

She hadn't cared; she had tried to disobey, and for forty seconds both brief and endless she'd been successful.

"Lucky girl," the doctors said when they brought her back anyway, air punching into her lungs. And later: "The knife missed your kidney by millimeters."

A stab wound intended to kill. Her survival wasn't luck, it was punishment. Even now, she's not entirely sure she believes otherwise.

"Two agents died because of me," she reminds him because god knows she will never forgive herself for that even if she finally found a way to live with it.

"And a million people were saved," he counters.

"That won't matter when they find out." She glances at the door half expecting to see Skye or Ward standing there already.

"Let me deal with that."

"I'm here because you asked," she says frankly. She'd committed to a life behind a desk - both penitence and for everyone else's safety. But she owed Coulson, too.

"I know." His thumb runs along her scar almost in apology. "Regrets?"

"The coffee here could use help."

He doesn't let her derail the conversation that easily. "The point of these things," he emphasizes, his fingers trailing over her scar again, "is to remind us that there is no going back."

Smiling feels foreign, but she manages a wry expression. "Sounds familiar."

"Then you'll remember the next part."

She doesn't have to say anything to that. Her past might be an age-old argument between them, but he has a point.

"You should talk about it," he adds. "One day."

She answers somewhere between a noncommittal nod and a shrug. "One day."

He accepts that, a finger tapping against her back in silent confirmation that he's going to hold her to it.

She didn't expect, returning to the field after everything, that she would find proximity to him as reassuring as she has. It isn't simply that he saved her life (in more ways than one), it's the innate trust, the ease of being together, all that history built into a connection that doesn't require effort. And changed or not from their individual experiences, she can sense by the way he doesn't rush to move back or make an attempt to stop his hand from drawing across her skin that the feeling is mutual.

"Lock the door," she orders.

It takes him no time at all to understand, his palm flexing against her back. "This is hardly the most compromising position we've been in."

A smile comes to her a little easier this time. "Jakarta?"

"I was thinking about Niger."

"That was a little more than compromising," she points out, and pulls her shirt and vest together up over her head. "And unless you have something else you'd rather be doing right now..."

"I don't."

"Then I hope in a moment we'll be further along than this."

That gets him to the door. He locks it, but she notices hesitation written in the slight hunch of a shoulder. She knows his question before he does, but she waits for him to work it through because it's the kind of question he'd only ever ask her to answer.

"What if this...," he starts, and glances down at his scar in contemplation before he walks back to her. "What if being different is someone worse?"

It's the only kind of vulnerability she understands; the same question she hasn't stopped asking herself. She brings her hand to his chest, feels the steady beat of his heart beneath the scar that will always be a reminder of the stopping of it. "You know all these tests you're ordering can't answer that for you."

He nods slowly. "So, just time then?"

"And people," she admits with some difficulty. She let a team down once - a hollow statement in light of the sacrifice they made for her - and being a member of a team again isn't a choice she makes lightly. Their blinding trust in her isn't deserved, but she can't deny a part of herself still wants to earn it.

Her hands do the rest of the work needed to divest him of his shirt as he watches her. The enigmatic expressions they wear for everyone else aren't lost on each other, and she can see how he tries to mask the confidence that was taken from him in New York. It's shaken him, his trust in himself on unstable ground. They've never been good at keeping secrets between them, but he's been doing a better job at hiding this than she realized.

She touches his face before she kisses him, brings him into the present moment where the footing with her is strong. And there's nothing guessing or unsure in the way he kisses her back. They've always been good at this, comfort between them both a luxury and a necessity in the field, but it's always been without any emotional entanglements. Now they have something to live for, something to prove, and those are deep feelings they share.

Coulson remembers what he's doing - as much an expert in knowing her as he is an agent skilled in a number of languages, weapons and tactics - and she is entirely willing. He has her on the edge of the desk, her legs locked around his hips keeping him close, and they move together in tandem. It's familiar, without thought, but it's not just an affirmation or a habit like it used to be. There's need there between them now, death having taken something important away from them both.

Even without words, they can still convey plenty of meaning, and each touch is weighted, their movement a harmony. She tells him a narrative about second chances, about moving forward, her mouth leaving it in whispers while his fingers press marks into her hips.

They keep their stories on their skin, his hands say in return, defeat and survival in their scars.

 _One day_ , she thinks, the feel of him against her a reminder. And in the moment where she's riding high, tipping from controlling her body's ascent to following it over the edge, it's easier to believe.

 

- _Fin_


End file.
